Saturday, 31 March 2012

And this Man, and this Doctor
Were being chased by the trees
The Man having been raised surrounded by them, farmed for fear and fame and glory
And the Father and the Boy were being chased too.

So it goes.]

no no no NO NO DON'T TELL THEM PLEASEPLEASE

[The Man had done work for the Father before, a client, like any other. Except...

The Father had a House, or rather, he had found a House.
A place, he bemoaned, that had a mind of its own.
That caught the Man's interest. He thought that the House would keep him and
His
Doctor
Safe from the trees.

(And it did,until it didn't. But that'sanother story.)

The Father, however, knew better than that.
Because he knew that Man was not really a
Man
at all.]

why are you doing this to me I don't want to rememberI DON'T WANT TO REMEMBER

[Rather

He was a Mongrel. A wolf in sheep's clothing. And he had a rather bad
habit
Of throwing people away when he was done with them.

On a long enough timeline,The survival rate of everything drops toZero.

So the Father refused. But the Man was clever and wily and knew nothing of mercy. So if the Father wouldn't protect them from the trees

Then he wouldn't be protected either.]

Haha, is that what this is? Am I being punished? How about we tell them everyone's story, huh? How about Doc? How I burned down the mental institution she was in to leave no tracks behind? How she was legally DEAD?!? How about how I took Todd off the street, practically a Proxy himself, and made him into a fucking experiment?

[The Man lead the trees to the Father, and let him decide the fate of the Boy

A hostage situationFit for kings

He gave his answer.Then the Father looked at the Man and told him that he pitied him; He was dead soon after that. So then there was a Man, a Monster, a mad Doctor, a broken Boy -Who all played their parts well- Who all, maybe understood each other...]

How about Amanda, then? How she was young and quick and how I needed a runner that could outrun everything and anyone and Steele who I KNEW would come back, his interest caught, after I had nearly killed him and Sam
oh god she's going to die too
She's going to DIE AGAIN

Sunday, 25 March 2012

I’m not at the House. I’m on the way to DC. With a package, of sorts. Spence may say we’re not doing deliveries anymore, but I think we’re all acutely aware now, of the fact that I disagree with him occasionally.

Besides, this is a favour for an old friend. An old friend who I met in the strangest of places the other night. A warehouse in Detroit; not exactly the place I generally try to spend my Saturday nights, but a friend of mine invited me around to have a look at a personal project of his.

”Your House. It’s a community solution to an individual problem. People don’t Run in packs. The Runner’s experience is solitary, isolating, imperative, for that is how He operates; divide and conquer. Make the target drop from civilized society, then hunt them. A safehouse, a home base, an indivisible group that can split and reconnect, provide aid and structured networks…Only when we stop Running, can we start Fighting.”

So that’s what he did. Invited a bunch of Runners to start a community in a warehouse. Fantastic idea for me, but only one reason was on my mind as I pulled up outside the warehouse, with Poe perched on the passenger’s seat: With a group of runners from all across the area, all with their own distinct history, surely one of them would have some information on our red-headed friend.

Turns out, someone did; but it was the last person I expected. For while I was looking for information, I had in the back of my mind; three family members down, our ‘community solution to an individual problem’ wasn’t exactly working out. Clearly someone had missed those memos before starting this little…safeHouse.

The smell of blood was tangible as I opened the door, rushing out to occupy the cool night air. An invisible red mist. I shouldn’t have walked in. Recent events have made me try to play the big damn hero, but that’s just not who I am; I am, and always have been, a survivor. I’ve always wanted to extend my life, but I’ve been throwing myself into these dangerous situations without a care.

Poe cawed and flew to land smartly on my shoulder; he smelled the blood too.

Either I’ve been lying to myself all along, or I’ve finally realised; the only way to truly prolong life is to stand your ground, not to live in retreat. If you run from your troubles, you aren’t truly living. You’re subsisting. Living is not delaying death.

So I stepped across the threshold and drew my handgun. Click.

As I walked down the corridor, I could hear scraping from up ahead; the screech of metal against metal, the tearing of metal against flesh, the sawing of metal against bone. The smell of blood was mixed with something else now; something chemical, formaldehyde…an oddly sterile smell to be mixed with the scent of such violence.

You know what this means. You’ve smelled this before.

I came to the corner, and peered around, agonizingly slow, only to have my suspicions confirmed.

The warehouse floor was covered in blood. Absolutely covered; the shimmering red reflected the light from the middle of the room, centred on a single table, with a man lying on it. There were other tables, too, about 15 of them; a man and a woman were hooked up to IVs and oxygen masks on two of them, strapped down on these makeshift gurneys; not moving…barely breathing. But still alive, very much still alive.

Unlike the man on the table. It wasn’t even a man; it was only most of a man. The skin had been flayed from his flesh at his extremities, the exposed tendons of his arms and legs gave way to white bone. His chest had been broken open like the covers of a book, and inside was…not much. Filed up neatly along the edge of an operating table was a series of jars containing what were presumably some of the man’s organs, preserved and labelled meticulously. Below the table were several black garbage bags, glittering and dripping menacingly with fluids. In fact, below a LOT of tables were several black garbage bags; the only tables that did not have that particular feature were the tables that were occupied by those uncannily still people.

And in the centre of the room was the architect of this macabre project, her long black hair framing her bone mask; for it truly was made of sizable shards of bone, most of which looked to be human, though there was one part which was definitely from a male deer skull, according to the broken off antler that slightly protruded. The mismatched, Frankenstein-esque conglomerate of bone material had two small eyeholes, underneath which the glint of a pair of glasses was visible.

Doc. What has He done to you?

I pulled back around the wall slowly, but Poe, the scavenger, had other plans; he squawked excitedly and took flight around the corner, landing on one of the garbage bags underneath one of the empty tables, and started tearing at the plastic. Doc stopped her operation and looked up at the corridor, as I realised I’d been discovered, and changed tactics; standing up and slowly walking towards her.

"Lori…what have you done to him?” I asked mournfully, standing a fair distance from the table. Lori put her tools down, and with empty hands, slowly walked around the table to stand in front of me. I could see her eyes beneath the mask; she looked happy. She reached into her pocket, and I pulled my gun out of mine. “Easy now. No sudden movements.” She knew the score, and continued to rummage around in her pockets, eventually pulling out a yellow lollypop and a crumpled up note, holding it out to me with a curiously serene look in her eyes. I took them both, and pocketed them, continuing to stare at Lori.

You know what He’s done to her.

He’s done it before.

You know only too well.

”Lori, are you okay?” I ask shakily, not expecting much in the way of an answer, as she ran back around to the other side of the table and grabbed a package, passing it to me. It said “RIVERS” in messy handwriting.

Giggle, nod. It doesn’t take a genius to see that she’s no longer all there.

Oh, but she is. You know that. You know that the dead bodies around you weren’t taken by her, they’re His fault.

”Do you remember August, Lori?” I felt moisture seep from the corner of my eyes, as the twinkle in her eyes faded, and the giggling stopped. Nod.

”Remember the man who killed him? You found Writer, didn’t you?” I asked.

Of course. You have more important things to do, don’t you? Always did have a one-track mind. This isn’t your friend anymore, she’s not even a murderer anymore, she’s a broken means to a violent end.

She nodded, and there was a growling sound from underneath the mask, a gurgling, guttural affair. With that, she reached down to the bottom of her shirt, and lifted it just slightly, revealing a stitched up wound across her stomach, a thin, cruel slash.

”Tell me where Writer is. Let me finish the job. We can get him. We can fix this.” I pleaded. Lori blinked, opening her mouth to speak, tears openly in her eyes.

She’s so…collected.

The illusion was broken when all that came from her mouth was a collection of sounds; as if she knew what she was talking about, but her mouth wouldn’t move in the right ways. She stopped, frustration in her eyes, and tried again, before giving up with a sigh.

It was a long shot, anyway.

”Can you show me?” I asked Lori, similarly as hopefully. She pulled out a pad of paper and began to write, as the smells of the warehouse assaulted my senses once more.

She’s still there, but look what she did. The team doctor has a body count. And here you are asking for directions, like that’s all excusable. Like brief moments of sentience make up for murder. I suppose even a lion is seen as graceful and majestic, when it’s not hunting.

She ripped off the sheet of paper and handed it to me. I took a brief look at it and pocked it again.

These people had families, just like Lori’s part of yours. She’s just made 10 more graves for people to stand over and mourn, people to declare revenge, people to lose their minds over…

”Thank you, Lori…I’m going to miss you.” I said, moving towards the door. She made a low, rumbling sound from beneath the mask. Almost like a purr.

Lorelei,

Never had I met a person as smart and kind as you. Sure, we had our…creative differences, particularly about the when, where and whys of drug use, but we developed an understanding of each other, a mutual acceptance…and even a friendship. We’ve been here from the start, you and I. Ever since that day I came barrelling into yours and Spencer’s life, you’ve been there to support us, to pick us up when we fall down, to clean us up when we got messed up after a mission.

Then the others came. one, two three four five….All the other couriers. You and I, we’ve seen them all. The young kids through to the older, seasoned recruits. Our family grew…but there were always the injuries you couldn’t fix.

I never knew how you did what you did. How you cared so damn much about people, and continued your life even after you tried your hardest to save them, and it wasn’t enough. I can only imagine what you must’ve felt, being so incredibly involved, and so incredibly vulnerable. I closed myself off, stayed aloof, didn’t let myself become anything other than the guy who gets things done. You stayed, and you cared. That took incredible strength, strength I could never match.

People called you a bit of a mad scientist; I may have started that. “Doc” as a nickname stuck a lot better than I expected. I hope you liked it, I never meant it in a mean way. You always cared for your research, but it was always to help someone. Everything you do, everything you have done, has been for the greater good of some cause; be it to cure Spencer like recently, or the plethora of times you’ve figured shit out. A problem solver.

”Lori, how’s your research going?”She made a ‘so-so’ sign with her hand.”Can I see it?”Her face lit up as she led me by the hand to the desiccated organs and open corpse in the middle of the room, before picking up two pairs of blue latex gloves and passing them to me.”Meticulous as usual, I see.” I said, as I put the gloves on.

You put such passion into your work. Because you knew what you were doing was the right thing to be doing. I never had that luxury, I always questioned myself. I always do question myself.

I’m questioning myself now…but I know you wouldn’t. You’d look at me, and you’d smile, and you’d understand. It had to be done. It makes sense. I’d have done the same.

I hope.

Please, don’t hate me.

Lori turned around and leaned down to point to a part of the man’s brain, which stood there exposed, raw and bloody. In turn, she also exposed the back of her own head, her slightly frazzled black hair. She almost looked normal.

I had to be quick. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if she knew what was coming.

I reached into my pocket,

pulled out my gun

and fired twice.

I looked through my pockets when I was sitting in the car, and found the note about Writer, the lollypop, and the first note. “STEELE”, it said on the back.

I turned it over.

G'DAY STEELE! I'm so happy to see you again I've missed you all so much since I left but I promise I didn't mean to leave so suddenly I'll be home soon, really soon so take care of yourself or else. Research has been going well, tell Spencer that I should be able to help him more really soon the bodies have been giving me all sorts of good information, so don't worry about me I'm just fine and everything will be okay. KISSES, Lori.

I had to. She’d murdered an entire safehouse in cold blood.

I had to.

But her twinkling eyes were still there. Another pair of eyes to accompany the brilliant green pair in my mind.

We're not doing deliveries anymore. We shouldn't have been doing them in the first place. The Couriers bring bad luck and pain and death wherever we go. I bring bad luck and pain and death wherever I go. I... I...

... It was dark. No, it was bright. Day time. Safer. Safer to meet up with me. If anything, Mitch and Ryuu aren't stupid, but are shockingly well intentioned. She recognized me, Mitch. Nobody's ever mentioned how-

[Focus.]

"...caught in a moment where you're torn between some sort of... sadistic glee and horror? And, later, when you see yourself in a mirror... heh. Yes, I know what that's like, Spencer. The others don't tend to get it when you're torn between the two sides. Either they mock you for being senstive, or they yell at you for not being normal..."

"... Or they think you're a traitor before you even pass go, and you're left wondering... "christ, for all my struggling, all my fucking suffering, did it do any good? Does it make any difference?" It's when you start to think like that when the trouble begins, eh? Because sometimes, one person believing in you, it's not enough. And it never will be enough. Not when it feels like the entire world has already written you off..."

[Let me tell you all a story.]

"Do you know... what I find most hilarious? When things get rough and those once-friends slap you across the face... when people you thought were there to help you prove that they'd rather just walk away... who's there with open arms? With friendly words and smiles that never reach their eyes? Like ours never do? Proxies. Our siblings. So eager to hold out a helping hand when everyone else runs away.... and yet, none of them SEE it. None of them SEE they are practically BEGGING us to just BE as our natures WANT us to be. They don't realize that it's when you're covered in blood that... that you need help washing it off. To stop the shaking and get that stupid grin off your face... they don't realize it... and HOW THE HELL can't they realize that? These aren't stupid people. So HOW is that overlooked? HOW?"

"... Thank you. Fuck, I'm sorry. It's just, you know. So hard sometimes. With the Drums and the pounding and the laughter and they just look at you like you're... like you're not even human, like you never were human anyways and none of it is their fault. And then they have the nerve- the nerve to tell you to resist? To fight back? To act as if you're not trying hard enough? To tell you that you're weak?"

[It's about two people you knew quite well. Or you thought you knew. They're both dead now. One, a warrior. And one, a mongrel. A useless dog who never followed orders.]

Oh fuck, and just... everything was fine for a while, we talked and... she really, really just understood, understood like you all claim to understand and you don't and fuck there's all this blood and I can't get it off me

"What else do I have? What other line of resistance can I take? What else can I do? I'm not- I'm not sure what to do anymore. It hurts. It always hurts. Reminding me that I can only run for so long. And then? And then?!? When I finally reach the end of the road, when I can't fucking do this anymore, what's left for me? Death...? Is that what I have to look forward to?!?"

"...Yes. You decide what's worth clinging to - what's worth FIGHTING for - and you hang onto that. You don't let them TAKE that. We all do what we can with the time we're allowed, Spencer. Once you're in, there's no leaving alive. I'm sorry you never got a chance to know what 'out' was like..."

[The mongrel admired the warrior, and wanted to know how she had severed her chain. And deep down, the warrior pitied him, for you see, once upon a time, she had been a mongrel as well.]

And for once everything was fine and it felt like everything would be fine forever but then
but then I saw them following us with their barely concealed non-nonchalance and fancy gear and their looks that screamed "Proxy. Inhuman. Monster." You can tell who they are and what they want to doMoriarty'smen
They want to kill you so much you can feel it

"...Is it wrong to feel relief when you see the light at the end of the tunnel? Even if... it's hellfire? Never believed in that before all this shit. Kinda funny, eh?"

"... It helps if you have something to hold on to. Some sort of idea that... you'll get punished.

"Forgiven."

[So it goes. But it's rather unfortunate, how the mongrel only brings his disease wherever he runs. This is all his fault, isn't it?]

We ran and we killed. And it was justified. It was fucking justified stop looking at me like that it was justified they were going to kill me! But we both got back to where we agreed to meet and then
the sky got darker
and all the noise of the city died down to only a hum
and the web of black started to wipe out the sky
And He

"What was the other option? Die? Would we have been 'saved' then? For chosing to die ourselves instead of killing others? The... puppeteer will just get new puppets if the previous ones are defective..."

""There will always be others. There will always be someone to take your place in this world. You will never be missed for long. It all goes on without you. And eventually... You'll be forgotten."

[But for once, for once, the mongrel decided to listen to our orders.]

And I
And I was on my knees
Waiting to die, watching Mitch walk towards Him and I

[Only one person had to die today.]

"...The countdown finally reached midnight, then...?"

I turned my back on her like a coward and I ran
I ran and ran until I couldn't run anymore and there were so many voices telling me I had done the right
that I had done the right thing.

Tuesday, 20 March 2012

I thought that after all that had happened to you and yours,
Fitzgerald, (though you hardly resemble that man anymore, do you~?) it would be
the revenge-crazed drug addict or the murderous schizophrenic to find me and
try and take a chunk or two out of my flesh. Imagine my surprise when it’s your
doctor, mad as a hatter and brandishing a femur of all things, who manages to
jump me. Now, while my shoulder might be out of commission for the next little
while and I’ve ruined my favourite suit,
(something which I will be billing you for, Teller, once you’re back by my
side) rest assured that at least half of the blood that covers the good doctor’s
coat is her own, by my hand.

But don’t worry, I’ve kept her alive. She still has a role
to play, after all~

Did you really think we would have just left you alone? I’m honestly beginning to feel like a broken
record here, but when my superiors begin with their incessant Writer, we haven’t received a report from
you in well over two weeks despite knowing
I had been busy finding my dearest squad
leader (and you’ll all be pleased to know we’ve finally managed to recover the man, albeit not in the greatest condition) to attend to such trivial matters.
Your lot was hardly any effort at all, so I’d hardly call it an addendum to my
usual business to keep your darling selves occupied while I worked.

Oh but of course I had
plans, didn’t I~? Lori had many a question about those bones I was eager to
answer, sir Leon Steele was in much need of a reality check, (though he has
proven to be the most intelligent of the couriers, he seems to lack the ability
to follow through on his plans) and I had managed to locate Samantha’s darling
sister for a positively touching reunion.

However, I would very quickly find out I would have little
need for the girl.

And why is that, you ask?

Did it occur to any of you that all it took was one murder?
All I had to do was take one life - one measly, insignificant little life, and
suddenly you found your lives turned on their heads? You didn't need my involvement
to tear yourselves apart~ But that's just how it goes, isn't it? I can hardly
blame you. You destroy the caretaker, the custodian, the martyr, the mother,
and everything falls

piece

by

little

piece~!

I didn't even have to
destroy him as much as I did - a simple
bullet in the head would have done, and indeed was the original plan before that
mess of complications – but, what can I say~? I had some pent-up emotions to work out, and he provided
the perfect canvas.

Still, I do regret having to mar such a perfect face~

Speaking of the boy, he seems to have amassed a simply beautiful collection of documents. Files
on his Home, each of the couriers (not just the seven you know, mind you –
there are at least eighty files here, each one at minimum ten pages in length),
but most interesting was a password-protected text file labelled “HONESTY
EDITION.”

Now, I can summarize the contents of this particular
document rather quickly. It’s nothing but notes on my dear Teller, afterall,
and who better to talk about him but me, the
man who’s raised him since he was but a boy, competing for his life in his
little Colorado home~?

He was always a very promising
protégé, and the contest only brought out the best in him. I remember
having to call him in at least once a week to monitor his progress and chide
him about something; some act of brutality or betrayal that suggested that
darling Teller (now, forget the fact that the boy didn’t have a name until he
began to work with me) wasn’t exactly ordinary.
It was quite charming, really, to see so much bloodlust and determination
in somebody so young. I suppose some are just born different, yes~? And if his latest descent into insanity hasn’t
served as a reminder to all of you that Teller is, at his most basic level, a
murderous sociopath with a desire to kill and manipulate and control. Much like the first Crafter I met, incidentally, and the one I would end up gearing my entire life around. Why should I
have paid attention to him when it was my duty to oversee the raising of our
newest additions to the organization?

Non, non, we’ve been doing this for generations. Even when I came into my position of power some thirty
years ago we were doing it. The skills were passed down from the cream of the
crop – a Crafter much like Teller, with dark hair and amber eyes, who seemed to
have the whole world spinning in the palm of his hand. I supposed it was out of
a sort of misplaced desire to live up to his standards that I took Teller in as
my own when he had finally managed to place at the top of his class, and we did
work on quite a few projects in our time before he went rogue.

Really, I admired the persona he had managed to put on when
this blog first came to light. All of you, really; so fresh-faced and innocent,
giving so many intimate details away with every keystroke and comment – it was
like you hadn’t been doing this for years. But as things started to fall apart
again and again (and it was only until it happened a third time did I realize
that the death of St. Claire would lead to your untimely demise) you revealed
more and more of your true colours; Spencer, nothing but a mask; Lori, a mad
doctor being held together by parlor tricks and blue tarps; Steele, staying
with your ‘family’ out of a backwards sort of pride; Todd, already too far gone
to be saved, used as little more than an attack dog; Amanda, too bitter and
introverted to be of any use once things began to fall apart; Sam, little more
than cannon fodder; and August, the broken mother-figure who somehow managed to
hold you all together.

He thanked me, you
know~

But I suppose congratulations are in order. You’ve managed
to outlive my original estimates by two whole weeks~! I admit, six months was
quite optimistic of me, but it wasn’t as if you could have lasted much longer
anyway. In hindsight, my only regret is spending weeks toiling over Trackers’
reports and delivery schedules and power bills only to realize that the
simplest solution has, once again, proven to be the best~

The couriers are finished, Teller. Your charade is over.
This is bordering on ridiculous, and you’re losing your mind.

Sunday, 18 March 2012

I know the look. The desperation in bloodshot eyes, the look of the coward. Of the liar. It burns, stings. It sickens me, because it's like looking into a mirror of my own ineptitude. It makes me want to die and I can't have that, oh no. He's still laughing. Laughing at everything I do, everything I try, it's just not good enough. There's the pounding of my heart in my chest, the pounding of the drums in my ears, counting every step I take

One, two, three, four, five, six...

Something has changed, something in the air, and I can feel myself perking, aware, awake. I know they're bad, that they're evil; I can taste it, taste how afraid they are, the uncertainty in their minds, the sweat that rolls down their foreheads.

TRUE! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them...

I haven't changed, oh no, aside from for the better; the sickness has made everything sharper and crisper than it's ever been. I'm whole for the first time in a long, long time; here truly and fully; not an impression, not a ghost. Everywhere and nowhere all at once. I'm there as they whip their heads around to hear a twig that's snapped, a rustle in the forest. I'm there, but

They never see me

that's part of the rules, after all.

And so the Game begins.

They barely notice at first until they realize it's their blood dripping on the hard and cracked ground. And then they start to run again and the panic sets in and it dawns on them that they're not immune, that they're going to die too. Breathe in, breathe out. Slow steps turn to a hurried frenzy as they realize they're being followed. Quickened breath, faster, faster! The pounding grows in my head and the need grows in my chest, a knowledge that the monster will roar in triumph once I play the piano keys at my fingertips. But I wait. I wait because it will be so much sweeter that way.

I'm going to destroy you and everything you are, I'm going to chase and when you stop, I'll make you run some more. You won't stop you won't ever stop. I'll wake you up just as you fall asleep. You'll never know what's real and what's not, aside from the hunter...

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen...

Because it's then that you can start building worlds. Cogwheels and gears, lattice and tree branches. Bodies twisting into manikins of bone and nails. Dreams and nightmares mixing together like oil and water. Circus rings and skyscrapers going in all the wrong directions. Stumble and trip and forget which way is up. Sidewalks that end in abysses that have eyes, that gaze into your own and start to giggle.

It just takes one little push then.

You should hear how they all scream, Writer. Forced to stare into something that just mocks them. Forced to hear all the little voices inside their head while they face the darkness they were always so terrified to face. Some of them break right there. But some, oh, some, they hit the ground running. Fire and pits and brimstone. Panting, desperate assertions that this can't be happening. Chessboards and rivers of ink and ichor. Somewhere, the faint sounds of static and strings. Discord and order in a patchwork sky.

They bite their lips to keep from making noise until they bleed.

Sharp edges and spiders webs. It goes on forever, stretching out on lighten pathways to eternity. Stop to rest, and I just let them know I'm behind them. They take one second to catch their breath, and I'm there in their shadow. They open their mouths to scream, and I cut at their tongues. Bits and pieces of them start to vanish.

First, a finger. Then, a chunk of flesh; a flash of pain and silver, and then the slow drip. I wish you could see it~! The slow realization flashing across scarred features; then the nightmare truly begins.

Watching them lose hope is the best part.

Some of them renounce god. Some of them renounce Him. Thunder and snowdrifts. It doesn't matter. Once they're in my world, I'm their new ruler. The new master of their destiny. Everything, slowly being wrenched away from their grasping fingertips.

twenty three, twenty four

I hear it now. See it; words and phrases, black on the corners of my vision; swarms of letters, because the music comes from everything. Footprints and bloody viscera. The beat. The rhythm. Louder, LOUDER.Lace and velvet, ashes as rain. Nothing is better than making a move to the cacophonous melody of last breaths and strained heartbeats. Glasswork and drops of mercury. In my world, there is only my order. My chaos. I take everything from them, like how you took everything from me. And that gives me pleasure. I laugh. I laugh at them as they beg for it all to stop.

The Game continues on.

I'm hunting the villains. I'm hunting the evil. And I'm taking everything from them before I kill them. I'm playing and toying and destroying. I'm destroying souls. I'm destroying something beautiful

I own this

and can crush heads with my fingertips and rip joints out of their sockets and dig my wrists into bone and muscle and peel skin back and make everything into a work of art. Paint pictures with a well placed word. See the world bustle at my feet.

Saturday, 17 March 2012

I'm heading back to the House now, love; so I can see you and pay my respects, but I just...I can't leave it 'till then. I'll be spending most of my time looking for...looking for Lori's body...so we can give her just as respectable a treatment.

But I haven't treated you respectably at all, have I?

I've failed you; but then again, I'd failed you long ago. Before this blog started, we were so close, we'd talk, we'd fight, we'd laugh...but once it started, I don't know what happened. We drifted apart, and you drifted away. You started showing up less and less to dinners, and I started being at the House less and less...

I thought you could protect yourself. You were always the friend I'd never need to worry about, the silent, dependable one who had just as much of a chip on their shoulder as I did, who knew what was right, what was wrong, and didn't give a fuck what anyone else thought because you knew your judgement was the only thing you could go by.

I miss you. I have missed you. I did miss you. I missed your injury, I missed your long recovery, I missed you just getting around on crutches...

I missed you doing the right thing, for Sam, for Lori. Our lives had split, and have run in parallel, never crossing, never wavering, just stoically moving on with what we have to. I guess what we had to do just never...involved each other anymore. We just had other priorities. I always thought that we'd get out of the stormy seas and it'd be business as usual again, we could sit out on the balcony and grab a smoke, mercilessly insult each other, catch up, tell stories about what we'd been doing for the last few months, the sort of stuff that you just can't capture in written format. You were never great at writing anyway. You were always so focused on reality, to an extent that I could never match, even when I try to be grounded, I try to be moral, I try to be someone that can take care of their own. Your line just continued on its path, getting shit done, getting healthy again...

There's blood everywhere, and none of it is mine. I got it all over everything. How the fuck do you get blood out of carpets, anyway?

How long ago was it? an hour, maybe? two, three? I was just wandering around the house, and I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. It was Doc, still covered with blood and stuff, grinning like a maniac. I figured I was hallucinating, so I just decided to follow her and see what happened. No harm in that. She noticed me, but she just giggled and told me to be quiet because she was about to make history, whatever the fuck that meant.

I kept following, but things started feeling...wrong. The kind of wrong where your ears are ringing and you want to throw up. Then we got to the library and went inside and HE was there. Doc was laughing and I thought I was going to be sick. I reminded myself that it wasn't really happening.

Things get a bit fuzzy from there. I was staring into his face, everything else was background noise. Doc walked right up to him and started yelling.

"What are you gonna do, big guy? Here I am!" Laughing, coughing. A few shadows drifted up from his back, reaching toward Doc. She laughed more, high-pitched and crazy. "Grab me. I fucking dare you." I couldn't see what she was doing, I could only see the blank white face in front of me.

And then somebody shoved me out of the way, shouting "Oh, FUCK THIS." Amanda limped past me and I fell over, losing sight of him. She went straight to Doc, shaking her, trying to snap her out of it while I backed toward the door. I wasn't looking at him. I couldn't see his face, but I saw the tentacles reach out and grab Amanda and there was nothing I could do. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought Maybe this is really happening. I still couldn't do anything, what could I do? The tentacles wrapped around her and began to twist and she was screaming. I couldn't scream. I couldn't stop watching.

Doc giggled. She reached into her coat and pulled out a syringe, still talking to him.

I didn't really catch what happened next, but there was a crack and Doc hit the floor, syringe flying. The tentacles started to wrap around her too, and I think I was screaming now. They were dying. They were both dying. With a final scream and a sudden rush of blood, he tore Amanda completely in half.

They both disappeared then, into the mass of shadows. Amanda's body hit the floor with a sick kind of thump and then HE was gone and Doc was gone and I was alone with two halves of Amanda.

It felt like a dream, like I was watching myself walk over to the bloody mess on the floor and gently touch it. Checking for a pulse on a body that was torn in half.

I couldn't leave her there. Had to do something with the body. I dragged her down the stairs on total autopilot. It won't stop replaying in my head, but I'm completely numb.

I dug her the best grave I could, next to August. Three people dead, only two bodies to bury. I marked it with a pile of rocks and went back inside, feeling like I was floating. I don't know what to do now. I can't do anything but write this. They're gone, all of them are gone. I'm alone with Matilda and not-Todd and the stupid fucking crow. They're dead and there was nothing I could do. I'm sorry. Please come back. I'm sorry

Wednesday, 14 March 2012

So Spence, you’ve made your decision, huh? You chose a goddamn proxy, a goddamn, fucking, no name proxy who had been sent to MURDER US, over the woman you started all of this with. She who stood by you, she who you protected, she who protected YOU.

She who wanted to save you. And how do you thank her? Ruining her work, and ruining her.

“Brother.” Pff.

What are we to you now, brother? What are we, your Household, to you anymore? What was Doc? What was August? What is Todd, what is Amanda? What is Sam?

What am I? Not a brother, not anymore. I truly wish it could be how it was, us as brothers in arms, partners in crime, cogs in our organization: but I don’t think we’re in sync anymore. Hell, I don’t think we’re even in the same machine.

I’ve got work to do, so I won’t be Home much, except to check up on the team. Don’t bother paying me for it; I’m sure you’ll thank me later for my efforts.

Tuesday, 13 March 2012

and let loose the dogs of war. It's not a matter of waiting for the storm to comewhy wait for something that's already here
but rather making sure you won't lose everything in the process of it rolling through.

But we're doing an awfully good job in that regard, aren't we?

... So. Here we stand. Not down one anymore, but two. Do you know how hard it is to find replacements for you lot? How inconvenient this all is? We've still got fucking deliveries to do and you all. Keep. Dying! How do you expect for us to ever get anything done at all? Fuck, this is a mess. I'm starting to wonder why I even bother, especially when I just end up doing everything myself.

and then you wonder why I make mistakes. It's not my fault, it's yours. It's not my fault. This is YOURS, this is on YOU. It's your fault, you, all of you are just weak I fucking swear I haven't done anything wrong.

I haven't done anything...

Neither did he. Him. Welcome to Courier HQ, where logic is practically made up and time doesn't matter. I'm your host, the Storyteller; were you planning on dying today~?

No! No he wasn't! Because if he was, if that poor proxy was planning on dying like that, maybe he wouldn't have screamed like he was seeing hell itself -so imagine my fucking surprise as I head down to the basement in a fucking panic because I think Lori is down there being butchered or something, only to see her elbow deep in this guy's chest! Imagine my fucking surprise as she heard me coming in and didn't even look up, giving me one of those "just wait a second, Boss, I'm writing this down" type gestures as her "patient", and I use that term fucking loosely, thrashed and whimpered from his place in that fucking twisted theatre. Shit, there was blood everywhere. Lori was painted in it, just calmly scribbling down god knows what as she picked and prodded at the proxy's pinned open gut -God and I have been having a lot more dialogue lately than I'd like to admit- and imagine my sur-fucking-prise when Steele, Leon Steele, the only fucking voice of LOGIC in this House for like EVER, stood in the doorway and only said

"Let her finish."

Finish. Finish!?! Like she was actually doing something other than slowly murdering another person in the most horrible fucking way POSSIBLE?!?

I felt something pound in my ears. I could only... fuck, I could only stare into the proxy's eyes with terror I didn't know I could still feel. And he stared back.

he stared back

"Sam, get in here; if Spence kills again, I think he deserves a few more witnesses."

At that fucking moment, if I could've sold my soul to make him shut up, I would've without a second thought.

Lori... picked up a piece of bleeding tissue, examining it a moment with a nod before jotting something down in her notebook. I couldn't believe it, her just looking at this guy like he was a... specimen... just waiting to be dissected... I had fired before I even realized it; maybe she'd wake up at the noise and stop this fucking nonsense and everything could go back to the way it was before.

"What the fuck do you think this is?" She just stared. Stared and stared and stared like I had caught her sneaking food before dinnertime. It looked so fucking WRONG. Wrong. Just wrong. I remember wondering if I was going to be sick, and out of the corner of my eye, I just caught Sam, staring at me the exact same way

(it doesn't matter if we all die, because we're already dead)

Steele tutted like a sassy lady in a 90's sitcom and raised his pistol, flicking off the safety. "Also wouldn't mind a witness who can say reliably to a court, 'he had it coming'. Touch that trigger one more time, Spencer. We're all friends here, let's sit down and talk it out."

"Is that all he is then ? A proxy? A body?" I could feel my eyes narrowing into a glare. "Why not have me strapped down on that table, Lori? What's the fucking difference?"

"Good question. All the same to me; a liability."

And then she looked up at me, tearing up, voice high and breathy and weak.

"...Spencer. Boss. I...I want to help cure you." Shakily motioning towards her blood-splattered notebook. "I'm taking notes. I'm going to learn how to make you better, understand this condition, this sickness, in a way that no one has before."

"So you're going to cut up a kid? That could be August! O-or S-s-sam... And you have the NERVE to call out Writer? To say you're my friend?!?"

A hiss from mister prim and fucking proper; ""And you have the nerve to defend him?!?"

"I'm doing this for you, Spencer. To make you, and everyone else, better..."

Liar. Murderer. Nothing mattered in that moment, though. All I could see was someone like me, slowly bleeding out in front of my eyes. This isn't my fault. It's all of yours. Is this all you see us as? Cattle? Words on a page, something for you to fight back against because you can't possibly stand up to what scares you the most? Is that what we all deserve, to be strung apart and butchered like animals? It's a choice, a fucking choice that you're all too afraid to fucking MAKE, and all you say is "don't give up" or "you sold out", but who's the idiot here? Who's the fucking faceless now, huh? Who's the fucking COWARD?!?

They were all just going to watch him die, you'd all just watch him die

Sam's scream broke the tentative silence. "No, STOP IT!" Like it was that easy, but... I raised my gun again, aiming directly at Lori's forehead. I knew. This had to stop. This all had to stop. I could start again, find new people. But we were all never supposed to kill. Not like this. Never like this.

"B-Boss, I just wanted to help you, I wanted to make you better and help your body stop rotting and be a good doctor and..."

"Stop." Why was it so hard to speak? "Just stop. Lori wouldn't have said those things. She wouldn't have done this; treated someone like me just like a lab rat. She wouldn't have..."

"Problem? There's no problem, I was just doing my work! He was laughing along with me, he wanted to help everyone get better too!"

"You've fucking lost it if you didn't hear that screaming."

"Oh god, don't shoot me!

I...I..."

Quiet. Only slow drips coming from the operating table. Even Steele's "Easy there, tiger..." was flat and non-intrusive. "Her life ends, so does yours."

"Look at us. The Mongrel, the Lion, the Lamb, and the mad Doctor.Is this what it is, then? Do we all go and fall apart?" My hand was shaking, I couldn't breathe...

"We've already fallen apart. Now our goal is keeping these fuckers from murdering us in our sleep for as long as possible. I might make a cross in the garage, string him up, make an example of the useless fuck. Stick it in the front yard with the gnomes. Trespassers beware, y'know?"

I laughed, once, twice. It felt wrong, foreign."And that's what's become of you, then? Gone from shreiking at me for being a liar to being just as bad as I am? Worse, even? Listen to yourself! Y'sound like Writer; "Come now, Teller, darling, we'll make an example out of them~!" You make me sick. but don't you dare stop me from doing what you're too afraid to do. I'm sorry, Lori. But I can't overlook this..."

She inched towards the door, and I swallowed, waving my own pistol slightly. "No sudden moves. I don't want this to hurt."

"You make one mistake. I'm not including you in on this, 'Teller'. You're going next to him, and I'm stringing you upside down. Don't you FUCKING TOUCH Lori. You're not taking another family member away from me."

We all stood there for what seemed like hours. Them and me. Me and them. I wanted to say something profound, something wise. I wanted to go after her. I wanted to fix all of this. But I can't. I couldn't even say a word. When I finally spoke, it was as if it was someone else.

"... it's on your hands now."

"Better than being blood on yours, old buddy."

Sam and I stood there in silence a while after that. Just staring at each other. She apologized. She said that she just couldn't see anyone else die. I said that it was okay. That Doc would be okay. And I lied. I lied about everything.

Thursday, 8 March 2012

He's not dead. He was screaming while they buried him, and they wouldn't let me save him. He's still screaming under all that dirt. I hear it. Is it really happening, or is HE putting things in my head again?

August would tell me. When I couldn't figure out what was going on, he would tell me if it was my imagination or not. But he's not telling me now, he can't hear me anymore. I tried talking to him but he wouldn't stop screaming. I tried telling him he's safe now, nothing can get him underground, but he wouldn't listen. He's calling for help. He wants me to help him, he wants me to join him.

Wednesday, 7 March 2012

He's gone. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to fucking say. I guess I'll just say everything and hope I feel a bit better by the end of this.

I loved that kid more than anything; he was the only one who let me in and see his true face. Yeah, the motherly attitude? It was an act he was hiding behind. Hiding how much he hurt, how utterly traumatized he was beneath that bubbly and loving exterior. He didn't know what the fuck to do with himself anymore, so he devoted his last years to making goddamn well sure that we were all as happy as we could be.

I remember when we first brought him home from that burning farmhouse. Spence and I had gone down on an ordinary delivery. I was still a bit of a mental mess, but functioning for the most part. We got there, and as if on cue, a tiny boy crashed through a high window, rolled onto the roof, landed on his back...you know the story from there. When August finally came to, he didn't say a word. It'd be weeks before he'd talk, and all the while I could see how dead he was behind those beautiful blue eyes. After awhile, he introduced himself, we got to talking...and the blankness seemed to fade. Something in me knew it wasn't right, though. He couldn't have healed that fast: no one could've. Spence didn't seem to notice it (at least as far as he told me), so a few months in I gently confronted the kid. Not because I was angry or felt like I'd been lied to. I wanted to help him, and with a bit of gentle nudging, he accepted it. I would let him cry, talk, sit in my office with that blank look in his eye. If nothing else, I could give him a few hours a week where he didn't have to pretend. Turn on some Electric Light Orchestra when we didn't feel like talking, discuss some of the best and worst times in our lives when we did. Even if Love is Like Oxygen isn't an ELO song, I never said a word about it. I just slipped it into one of my playlists and he was none the wiser.

All of that time we spent together, the sleepless nights pouring out our hearts to one another, somewhere between close friends and a mother and son, I can't believe he hated me. Was I really making him pretend too? Did I truly cause him that much pain? Did he feel he had no one he could trust? What should I have done differently?

You know, when I saw him in the ground, before Steele and Todd started laying the dirt on top of him, I remembered that first day. Part of me wanted to jump into the hole, pull August out, run back to the van and start bandaging him. Feel the bones of his broken legs so he'd jolt back to life and look at me with those pretty little blue eyes. Scared, but alive: ask me what had been going on, ask why he smelled like a dirt pile, give me a hug. And after I was done putting his legs in splints, I'd tell him that he was going to pull through, that his legs would take a few weeks to heal because he lucked out with how the fractures were. Hold on, I'll drive you to the hospital, just stay with me, you've lost a lot of blood...

But no, I knew it'd be futile. So I stood there, my thoughts swirling about me, manifesting as a thousand angry and grieving voices screaming, enveloping me in a nearly unbearable cacophony. I started hearing voices when I was in the ward, something they did to me gave me a bit of brain damage. My memory's not quite as sharp as it used to be either. Oh, I can think. I can think, and I have so many other voices that try to think for me. Spencer does his best to try and help me quell them, but there's only so much you can do. Todd put the last bit of dirt on top, Steele said some words I don't remember.

As soon as everyone went quiet, I stumbled back to my basement, decided to shoot up because I didn't know what else to do. I've just been tripping balls in the night since, sometimes I think I see him dashing about in the shadows, smiling, or peeking into my office from the gap in the door. About to say "Can...can I come in?" in that soft, cracking little voice. I've occasionally said "Yes, of course!" and "I love you!" and "I'm always happy to talk to you!" to nothing, my knuckles are bloody from punching the walls and the walls are bloody from my knuckles punching them. During the day I've been digging through my old specimens again, making much more sense of their carvings than I ever did before. Odd how brilliance would shine through in grief, but I can read the writing now. All the little femurs and scapulas and humeruses are speaking to me now, those bright and tiny whispers. I remember writing it all now, I was grieving then too. I've been grieving for a long time, for the loss of loved ones and friends and a life I used to know. And whenever it would become too much, my mind would blank. I would find a dead thing, or find something small and kill it if I felt so inclined. Stuff it in a bag, bring it back to my home, write in its flesh and blood His sublime messages as they were meant to be read. I would grieve, and rejoice, and carve. And then I would tuck my work away for later, slip back into my usual self. The mad doctor, the loving friend.

I've found more bones to write on, bones of a species I've never worked on before. Such beautiful tablets once shrouded in living, thriving, screaming flesh. Itching, waiting to reveal their secrets as I carve.

Tuesday, 6 March 2012

Spence brought August back a couple hours after he posted, so we all basically knew what to expect…

But we could never be ready. Not for that. You took the best amongst us, and turned him into a fucking billboard, another brick for your writings on the wall.

I heard a scream. I don’t know if it was one of us, or just the sense of…security, family…hope…we had, audibly tearing. I felt Him in my mind, and motherfucker, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear He was smiling. And it was all I could do to smile back, for I wouldn’t give Him the satisfaction of crying. A toothy grin, or was it a grimace? A mechanical response to an offensive stimulus. No thoughts.

Nothing.

There is nothing left for any of us. Maybe we were just kidding ourselves into thinking there ever was. Our jokes, our friendships…miniscule in the face of the Abyss. The endless darkness into which all of us have fallen. Our moments of brightness like the spark of a match; igniting the darkness for a few beautiful seconds.

Then burning out.

We buried him, Writer. Out in the forest. Spencer was not in attendance, I’m sure you’ll be sorry to know. When he walked in with August, he said only one thing.

”Start looking for a replacement.”

Then he went off to the Wing, and we haven’t seen him since.

So I dug August’s grave, and we all said a few words. It was a simple service. Nobody dared to read from the Bible. All that jazz about hope, forgiveness, compassion…

All those life values that they so love to spruik in the churches, to pacify the congregation. What’d Marx call it again? “Opium of the people”?

Real opium works better. Less people die because of real opium.

But I digress. This isn’t about religion, Writer, this is about August, and it’s about you.

Funny isn’t it? We’ve lost so many along the way, but it’s always been just a part of the job. Just business. Never have we had one of ours murdered to send a message. Not like this. We took it hard. I’m taking it hard. (I see absolutely no point in that fucked up masquerade people go through. It’s all fine. I’m okay. It detracts from the memory of the dead to act like you don’t give a damn.)

Unfortunately, you may have made an error in your calculations.

Of all people to take from us: you took our moral guidelines. You took from us the final bastion of innocence, and you took from us the last one keeping us together as a team.

Hope, forgiveness, compassion.

No thank you.

As I dug August’s grave, all I could think about was digging another one. A lot more shallow, and in a less scenic location. For you, Writer, for you.

Maybe a garbage can. Or an alleyway. Maybe both! Maybe a couple of garbage cans and alleyways, actually, you won’t need to be in one piece by the end of it.

I’m going to kill you, you depraved son of a bitch. I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, but I am going to murder you. I’ll hold a gun to your head and pull the trigger, watch as whatever fucked up shit you have in there instead of a brain comes out the other side. I hope it’s black. I’m going to carve my name into your skin with a hot knife, so when you end up back in the Abyss with Mr. Thin, He’ll know who sent you home. I’m going to see you wither into a husk as you burn. Not in Hell, you know as well as I do that that’s a silly concept, but maybe in a bonfire. Joan of Arc style. Extra crispy. I’m going to hold you under water until the bubbles stop. I’m going to smother you with your own disgusting hair. I am going to scalp you.

Monday, 5 March 2012

... if you're wondering why two syringes of the stuff is missing, Doc, I took it with me.

Had a bad feeling. And my bad feelings tend to be pretty damn accurate.

Writer played us all for fools.

Made us think that we had a choice. Had time. That maybe, just maybe, this time he was playing by the rules. That maybe, we could make all this right. That maybe, August had a little bit of a chance.

There's no happy endings.

He toyed with August, and when I arrived, he toyed with me. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to, because it was written out in front of me. It was written out everywhere. I dropped to my knees. I remember thinking idly that this must be some sort of joke. It seemed funny when I started to pray.

It's not funny now.

"Failure. Failure. Failure. Failure."

Over
and
over
and
over
again

written in August's flesh and blood. A portrait of my own ineptitude.

He wasn't moving

And Writer just kissed my cheek and left me there alone. With him.

"H-he's right... about all this."

A cough. Blood comes with it. I crawled over. Grabbed his hand. He shouldn't have had to been alone.

"I-I... think I understand, Boss. I hate you. H-hate all of th-them. Just e-everything, and... and on the way...."

"... It was worth nothing because it was finished. I wondered how
I'd been able to walk, to laugh with the girls: I wouldn't have moved so much
as my little finger if I had only imagined I would die like this. My life was
in front of me, shut, closed, like a bag and yet everything inside of it was
unfinished. For an instant I tried to judge it. I wanted to tell myself, this
is a beautiful life. But I couldn't pass judgement on it; it was only a sketch;
I had spent my time counterfeiting eternity, I had understood nothing. I missed
nothing: there were so many things I could have missed, the taste of manzanilla
or the baths I took in summer in a little creek near Cadiz; but death had
disenchanted everything..."

I didn't know what I was saying. But later I would realize what this was from. Fucking pathetic; even as he lay there, it was like me laying there -I could hardly stand it...

And he laughs.

"What is the most wonderful thing in o-our messed up w-w-world, Spencer F-fitzgerald?"

It was then that I held the clear, smooth glass of the syringe in my palm. For him to see.

There was an unspoken covenant between us in that moment. In that one, silent moment... He smiled, just so slightly, smiling at a coward...

"The most w-wonderful thing in the world... Is th-that all around us, people can be dying..."

He flinches as the second syringe enters his flesh.

"And we don't r-realize the same thing can happen..."

"I'm sorry. August, I'm sorry."

"To us."

I held him close. He seemed to.. .relax a bit, despite how terrified I was. It's hard to hide. It's so god damn hard to hide it... He lay his head on my chest. Listening for a heartbeat that's sporadic at best.

"... N-no, I'm sorry. Looks l-like the whole time, w-we were both just pretending..."

I could feel myself start to shake.

"That's k-kind of..."

He was so brave

"Haha-"

Because there was never anything left of him to be afraid with

"Funny."

I could see it. Those blue eyes slowly losing their light. The light that my eyes seem to have lost a long time ago. People live. Then they die.

"... Dinner's at eight."

... that was the most natural hug I've ever pulled anyone into. He hated me more than anything, but...

... but...

"Say hi to Allan for me."

And the unspoken plea. Tell him I'm sorry for this. Tell him I'm sorry for everything. Tell him that...

It's quite unfortunate, really~ I'm a man who prepares for your team's arbitrary decision making, Fitzgerald. To be frank, you've all quite a history of making last-minute decisions that usually end up imploding in your faces. I had figured that maybe, just maybe, your darling little housewife might decide to bring along your sham of a doctor, though the drug addict? That one surprises me. I had thought the boy was smarter than that, putting the two of them together - but I suppose if there was one thing he was good for, it was keeping you all together~ How exactly did you last as long as you did without him? It makes me wonder why it took you so long to get him to enlist!

Because you knew about him and his father all along, didn't you, Mr. Fitzgerald? Why else would you have taken the boy in~?

So I sent the squad in. Not a problem. Baker Street has a wonderful and proud history of bringing targets down, your couriers no exceptions. You're only untouchable until you leave that dear House of yours, afterall!

You can imagine how absolutely ecstatic I am about this turn of events. Not only do I have explaining to the Higher Ups to do, injury reports to be written, insurance to be collected, and punishments to hand out, now you've forced my hand and made me take care of what was supposed to be a simple job myself.

I wonder, sometimes, Fitzgerald, how long you knew we'd been watching you~? From the very beginning, I'm sure you knew we - I - was looking, but when did you first begin to feel our presence? How many 'freak proxy attacks' needed to happen before you started to read the writing on the wall? See the patterns emerge? You were always very sharp, I'm sure you noticed right away. But why hide it? Why keep it from them? Why dismiss it as 'all couriers are high priority,' and nothing more? Were you afraid of telling them the truth? Or did you just not want to accept it for yourself~?

Ahh, so much to say, so little time to say it!

I suppose I should make this brief. You've no doubt noticed that your beloved little pet's gone missing~ After my squad's pathetic failure I had all but given up on sending others to do the dirty work for me. Now, don't get me wrong - there were still deals to be struck, lives to be threatened, and packages to be arranged.

And while it's true I didn't have nearly enough time to play with the boy as I would have liked, (what with time constraints and the like. Only a six hour delivery, right~?) I think I did manage to have my fun. Though I admit he wasn't nearly as resilient as I had expected - though I wasn't expecting much, was I, with such a feeble frame and pretty face?

Drop by the old apartment, Fitzgerald, and see if you can reach him before the blood stops flowing.

Sunday, 4 March 2012

I suppose if you can dismiss the fact that we lost the van, were nearly killed, and had to walk ten miles to find a dealership that would be willing to sell three people with five days' worth of luggage on our backs and in our hands whatever car we pleased, no questions asked.

I think paying in cash helped.

We got back not too long ago, actually, and believe me when I say I have never been so glad to see the House. Sure, the floors weren't exactly spotless anymore and there were a massive pile of dishes in the sink (we bought a dishwasher, you know!) that needed cleaning, but there really isn't any place like home. Though I admit I'm a little upset I won't be able to stay long enough to get down to business; I've got another short delivery to do once I unpack and wash up. The usual, really; another dying lunatic's journal to be delivered to an online friend before his days are up. They're always so sad. I take it upon myself to do these deliveries because I like to think I'm able to comfort them in their last few days, not to mention the fact that I've always found it funny how people seem to just know their time is up. I've met some people who have predicted their deaths down to the minute and the location of the wound that killed them, though I have to say I've never really stuck around to find out if they were right. Still, you hear it on the local radio or sometimes the news; unknown man found dead, thought to be homicide, more information on the hour.

... Jesus, I'm feeling morbid tonight.

Let's end this on a light note, then. We ended up getting a 1991 Firebird from the dealership just outside the city. The salesman was a balding 40-something in a rented tuxedo and oozed slime like our van oozed oil, and immediately approached us asking what 'the lovely couple' were looking for.

The lovely couple in this situation being, naturally, Doc and Steele.

We weren't sure what to make of it, either.

Once we managed to get the giggling under control (I was 'their perfect, darling daughter Augustine' - haha. I would have been upset, but the fact is he bought it completely) Doc and Steele decided to see just how far they could lead this guy on, mentioning they were coming up from their wedding in New Orleans and needed a new car, because Doc's (apparently now named Veronica) uncle had gone a little overboard with the champagne and trashed their previous car, as well as the rented limo. They had spent most of their money paying for damages and insurance and needed a cheap car, quick, so they could get back to work. Not a complete lie.

He ended up selling us the Firebird for half price. Steele says he has plans to convert it into the Knight Rider or something - I don't know my 80s TV shows very well, but by the description he gave me, it's going to look fantastic when it's finished. It's not a simple paint job like the Mystery Machine was but hey, we've got nothing but money and free time.

Saturday, 3 March 2012

When we don't feel comfortable seeking shelter in a shitty motel for one reason or another, we tend to sleep in whatever vehicle we're driving down to the pickup or drop point. Pretty standard stuff, and I normally wouldn't reveal this level of detail but it appears our competition has figured it out anyway. Middle of the night, I woke up and Steele and August were gone. My first groggy instinct was to chalk it up to a male bonding moment outside the van and go back to sleep, but then I realized that I woke up because a bunch of people were outside the van screaming and the doors were open and what the fuck was going on. Then I heard shots being fired: fucking fantastic.

I'm not usually a heavy sleeper, but I guess I was tired that night. But not tired enough for that gaggle of proxies, however. I silently slipped my glasses on, grabbed a few necessities from the van, and waited. I knew they were going to send one of their mooks after me eventually, so I took a moment to prepare a particularly nasty cocktail. Much like a magician who never reveals her secrets, I can't tell you what was in it, but the bitch who slipped in with the sole intent of gutting me (I'm sure) got a full dose of it. I held a cloth to her mouth to muffle her screaming, but she still flailed around quite a bit and kicked a few things over. Well fuck, so much for subtlety: I figured I might as well go for the dramatic finish at this point, so the moment she went limp, I picked her up by her shirt and tossed her out the back doors of the van. She landed in a gibbering crumpled heap on the ground, and moments later one of her buddies swung by to grab her. Awesome, get the fuck out of here, I thought. That still left me with the problem of how to deal with the goddamn shootout outside. I couldn't just leap out and book it.

Except I kind of did. Maybe not the smartest decision I've ever made, but the sniper bullets whizzed past my head and dented the van as I bolted. A few folks - strangers, I thought at first, tried to stop me. The bigger man got a shot of my venom, the boy...not in need of any treatment at that point, I pushed him aside easily and lunged into the underbrush. Suddenly, I recalled their faces: the diner. Fuck, I wondered how long they'd been tracking us to follow us there. Goddamn proxies. I swear I must've been a swift blur of adrenaline, because those snipers couldn't touch me. I don't know if they fired again, or if anybody else even attempted to stop me: all I knew were the soft stings of the brambles and the trees rocketing past me as I ran. It didn't take long to find August and Steele: they asked if I was okay.

I told them to shut the fuck up and run. Even from the paranoia and panic machine, at that point, it was a good way of motivating them. Yeah, we booked it. And long story short, we found our way to the drop point without the van, met our charge, and...well. I've written quite a lot here, I'll let you stew over it while I think of how to continue my story.

By the way, New Orleans was a lot of fun, and let's never speak of it again.